


Life, Continued

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:29:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert must pass a final test before he can be admitted to heaven, and Valjean must let him attempt it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life, Continued

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/gifts).



> Notes: This takes place roughly after [A Welcome Tenderness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/770713) but it is not necessary to have read that first. Both Valjean and Javert are dead, and Javert is making the next and final step to heaven.

There's a moment when he sinks beneath the water that Javert is resigned. And then he panics, and Valjean is there in that moment, supporting his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and Javert can only gasp for air, choke and sputter and beg without words in those long seconds for any sort of mercy. The feelings are alien to him as they have been all his life - to beg, to entreat, to rail against the path marked out for you, they have been foolish efforts that he would never have considered. But it is as though dying has loosened his tongue, softened his straight spine somewhat, and he can entreat Valjean numbly and without words not to let him drift beneath the water again.

 

Valjean does not let him go, merely supports him for long moments, strong and quiet, and Javert wonders what he is missing. How long will he linger on this shore? How long before he can swim the darkened sea? Valjean is gazing at him now, with eyes that shadow Javert's newly sensitive soul, as though Valjean is being ripped apart inside himself, and finally Javert understands that this is not merely Javert's test. Valjean will not let go, Javert knows that, as much as he knows anything. Valjean will not let him sink, not while Javert fears. Javert must do it for them both.

 

It takes an effort to let himself go, to offer back to Valjean, just a fragment of what Valjean has done for him, to meet strength with strength, and belief with belief. He understands now that it has been many years since first he came here, years that have not changed him, save that when he stretches he no longer hurts, and some days his skin is smooth without a need of a shave, and he understands also that Valjean has broken through and saved him, that Valjean could not think of any soul writhing in the dark without pity.

 

Now he must return the favour. He shakes off Valjean's hands and lets himself sink again, lets the darkness take him, water flood his eyes, his ears, his nose, until once again he is submerged and there is nothing save the faint wavering of Valjean before him, a darkened image and Javert opens his mouth to scream, and the water rushes in but still he does not force himself to the top. This is for Valjean, he tells himself and shuts his eyes. This is his own offering, and the water is gone.

  
  


He is lying on the floor of a well appointed sitting room, dry to the bone, and warm to boot. There is no water, no fear, and he lies there for long seconds, gazes at the plastered ceiling before he raises himself to one elbow. The uniform he has worn for so long in the darkness has been put to one side, in favour of black trousers and a white shirt without even a cravat to prevent indecency, and his feet are bare and sink into the carpet when he stands. At the other end of the room, Valjean sits with his face turned away and Javert knows, without any thought that Valjean has wept. Javert had taken that final step, had rested his trust in Valjean, his belief, acquired over too long a time, had trusted in what the other man had asked him to do, and had emerged cleansed and he thinks with cautious hope, a little more whole, has stepped a little further into Valjean's world, a little closer to what even now he flinches from calling heaven. But Valjean is turned away, the curve of his back a fortress, the bend of his neck despair, and Javert realises with the feel of a warm cloak slipping over his shoulders that he is not alone in this shock. He knows without asking what grieves Valjean.

 

Valjean who has fought through his life to save others, to rescue them from indignance, to succour them from poverty, to free them even from obligation in the silence of his methods, believes perhaps that in letting Javert go, in allowing Javert to sink he has ruined him. It would be a long, sad journey indeed if after all these years that Valjean has patiently attempted to undo Javert's blindfold and bring him into the light, to on the last step, falter.

 

Javert crosses the room in quick, silent strides, the sound of his feet muffled by the carpet, and kneels at Valjean's side so they are level, places a hand on his back, and with difficulty when Valjean looks at him, he manages a smile. For all the joy and comfort Valjean had brought, for all he had rescued Javert from purgatory, still Javert is unused to smiling. Now he attempts it, and a creaky thing it may be, but it brings a light to Valjean's eyes, and a reciprocal smile to a mouth that seems equally unsuited to it perhaps, and Javert does not wonder at that. Valjean is a solemn man, his joy comes from within. Now, Javert does not disdain to tug Valjean a little closer, to hold him in that first shuddering of something deeper and better than grief, that discarding of fear and taking on of hope.

 

He has little experience in this, in comfort, too often he has been the one who in the worst of rages and despair has received it, and he is greedy for this opportunity, greedy to prove himself one who Valjean can turn to if it is needed. He lets his hands crease the black broadcloth of the other man's coat, bends his head closer to crush the sadness from them both. He has crossed over at last, has come to Valjean's house, and he dares to think for good. The oppressiveness of his past has been shaken from him, and it is with silent mental inventory that he concludes that he is still Javert. There are still - even faded and diminished after all this time - his memories, he is still perhaps too rigid, only now in his faith. He is Javert and before him is Valjean.

 

Valjean eventually sits back, and Javert sits beside him, does not take a hand but looks at Valjean full on, marvels at the strength so plainly displayed. He doesn't want to move from this room, not when he knows the width and glory of what will stretch before him. He is content in this moment, and Valjean seems to feel the same. He is surprised when Valjean folds his hands around his, and squeezes tight for a moment as though he needs to reassure himself that Javert is real and present.  He perhaps understands a little then, how difficult it was for Valjean to have to believe that Javert could make the right choice, to let Javert fall again, to have the possibility that all his work might come to naught, and overcome he squeezes his hand back, and there is no need for words between them. They stay like that for a long time, perhaps years, and then Valjean stands and leads the way to the dining room. The doors fall open before them, and the lights spring up and Javert begins to believe.

 

The food is simple, good and plain, a meal for a feast day, white bread, and dark wine, slices of meat on a platter, golden cheeses that waft their scent gently across the table. They eat well, and when Valjean offers Javert the plate of bread, Javert sees once again the man who needs to succour, the man who will do what must be done for those around him. After so many years it still has the power to shake him to his core, and he takes it with a muttered thanks, as though it were a benediction. There is a tension in him now, a subtle tightening that has nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with anticipation. It is not foreign to him - how many times had he hoped in his own chamber of darkness and doubt that the door should open and Valjean be revealed, but there is a new tingle to it this time. It will not be wrenched away, and he cannot help but glance at the man across the table in admiration that he feels, for the first time admitting it to himself.

 

Valjean is restless as well, and when he offers to show Javert around this tiny corner of his own (though it seems anything but tiny) it is made as though he must. When Javert declines, and delicately probing this new freedom, asks openly where his bedchamber is, Valjean amazingly flushes. "That is for you," he says finally. "Now you are here, you guide its creation. Shall we see?"

 

He leads the way up the stairs, a flickering candle that never burns down in his grasp.

They pass by other rooms that are silent and still, but none of them are Javert's, he can tell, until finally they are on the top floor, and there is a solid heavy door that is clearly Valjeans. The rest of the corridor is smooth and featureless, no breaks in the uniformity, and Valjean frowns. Javert however, suspects the truth. He pushes open Valjean's door, and notes how it changes a little under his touch, still the same heavy oak, but now the handle is of polished brass, and a different shape. Inside is what could be none other than Valjean's room, the same room he knows so well from their occasional liaisons, but subtly changed. He could not say what the changes are, just that he knows he fits here. There is a shaving mirror tilted to his angle in the corner near a washbasin, the chest of drawers is a little open and he knows that if he looked there would be clothing of his own. The windows are a little wider - Javert has always appreciated the first sight of the sky from those days when he must always rise before dawn, and Valjean has noted the changes as well.

 

His face is a complex mix of happiness, and doubt as though he cannot quite believe still that Javert would choose this, and as though the thought is not his own, Javert hears, echo in some recess of his mind, that everyone Valjean loves, must leave or he must leave them. He remembers dimly, from long long ago, the report of seven small children and a sister. He remembers still the look on Valjean's face when he heard the giggle of a small child, somewhere near and yet out of reach. He cannot bear to think that this must end, and he has no words to reassure, they are caught in his throat. Instead he kisses Valjean, firmly, squarely and with no shame. Shame does not belong here, not in the world that they have built for themselves, and  he feels that strange peculiar joy burgeon in his chest, the joy he had hoped to catch from Valjean for so long, the hope for more. He cracks open a little, and thinks this must be the final gift.

 

Valjean kisses him back, firm hands around his back, as though he could wish for no more, which Javert attributes again to his kindness. He has no illusions about what he offers, about what he brings, stripped naked in the sight of death he has come to know himself. But he has been clothed in hope from Valjean, and he has chosen to wear that garment. The kiss is sweet, but the sound of Valjean's breathing is sweeter still and nearer his heart. It is no work at all, to strip themselves of their clothing, to tumble back onto the bed, to abandon for the moment the world outside of this room. It is the first time they have made love here, since Javert had stepped through, and he has missed this particular form of closeness however odd a form of love it may seem for heaven. Usually Valjean will guide him through it, not through any more knowledge but because he smooths over any cracks with something that Javert thinks, might be suspiciously close to love, he does not crumble, he endures.

 

But here in this bed, together it seems without fear of having to leave, Javert wants to reach out into the darkness and offer something back. He kisses Valjean with the requisite amount of care, and then from his mouth to his cheek, and down his neck, he continues, soft brushes of kisses, his hands smoothing endlessly down the taut expanse of Valjean's body. It almost feels, when he does this, as though he is close enough for nothing to come between them. Valjean lets him do this, cards an absent hand through his hair, strokes his cheekbone briefly but otherwise lets Javert have this moment.

 

It's almost peaceful or would be if Javert were not painfully hard, and he does not wonder at his physical reaction, but instead coaxes a similar one from Valjean, massages him to hardness, and then, he bends his head in a way that would once have caused him to rebel, and like this he takes Valjean's prick into his mouth and closes his eyes. It is thick and heavy on his tongue, solid weight and Javert lets himself relax, to appreciate that Valjean keeps himself so still, though the tiny flexions that Javert can feel under his hands, indicate that Valjean would like nothing better than to let himself loose, and Javert resolves with as much application as he has ever fixed his mind to anything, that tonight Valjean shall have whatever he likes.

 

None of this alien to them, it is with long familiarity and an ease that he had never imagined he would feel with another person, that he attempts to bring pleasure to Valjean like this, and he can hardly resist looking at Valjean a little, who has flung an arm across his face as though to stifle the sounds he makes, and Javert is warmed by the thought, warmed by the control that Valjean exerts over himself, the way that even now, like this he seeks to put Javert at ease, and is still more determined now to shred that control, to give Valjean all the pleasure he'd never ask for, and yet gives so readily to others. He knows the way Valjean's body responds to touch, the places where a press of the fingers, a flick of the tongue can give the most pleasure, and he is determined to lay out - the way he still cannot do with words - everything he feels. He hopes, even prays that he will be understood in that fashion.

 

He can feel Valjean tense, preparatory to orgasm, and loath to do so, he pulls back, the evening will not end here he thinks. Valjean does not protest, but he does give him a somewhat dry look as he pulls back his arm, and brings Javert in for a kiss, not seeming to care where his lovers mouth has been, and another bolt of desire worms its way down Javert's back at that, and he responds with fervour, only a little distracted by Valjean's hand stealing around his prick and stroking it with a firm and tender motion, as though  all Valjean cares about is drawing Javert to completion. Javert feels a familiar sense of pleasure wash through him, but knows he must still Valjean's hand for now.

 

Instead he leans forward and kisses him once more, shares breath in that moment, traces a long line from Valjean's neck, down his chest as he considers what to do. Valjean shifts under him, preparatory it seems to turning over or pulling Javert closer, or anticipating in a thousand ways what he can do to make this better, and Javert affixes his knees to the bed more firmly, resists the effort. He catches Valjean's eyes - dark with passion perhaps, or maybe just some trick of the light - and he does not know precisely what Valjean sees, except that he stares for a long moment and then relaxes back into the bed, lets the mattress cradle him for the moment, the tension seeping from strong shoulders and arms as he lets Javert take this where it will go. Valjean will always let go, Javert realises and in this moment he wishes to reassure Valjean that now that he is here, he will not leave. Wishes to extend to him the care with which he has been treated, to offer him, faulty and doubting though it may be, Javert’s own trust in him.

 

Javert leans to the bedside table and is not surprised by the ease with which a small bottle comes to his hands. He is still not used to the mystical properties of this place but he will gladly use the amenities that it provides. He hesitates though before continuing. In the time he'd spent on earth, what he contemplates now would be shameful, would be beyond thought- impossible. If he had ever dreamed such a thing, it would be tucked up inside him with everything else he had locked away inside and never thought about.Valjean has penetrated him before, and Javert had enjoyed it (more perhaps than he cared to admit even to himself) but this is different. Here he is bare not only in body but in mind, no shield between himself and Valjean, not now, perhaps not ever again. It takes more courage than he could wish, to follow the path Valjean had taken before, to carefully penetrate himself with his fingers, head turned away until Valjean's strong, warm hands gripped his sides, anchored him again to the moment. He can hear the sigh of his own breath synchronise with the hitch of Valjean’s, and he feels closer once again,

 

As he works himself open, carefully, cautiously, for Valjean is a small man in no sense of the word, he is surprised by Valjean stroking his prick, one hand still warm on his hip, reaching beneath the skin  to soothe, and without being aware of the transition, he is not merely enduring the necessity before he can accept Valjean into him, but actively welcoming. It is an odd sensation to be so naked before the gaze of another, usually when they do this, Javert takes a little relief in being unseen whichever position he may be in. Now however, as he reminds himself, this is not about the usual way in which they connect for moments that must inevitably end. This is the beginning.

 

When he deems himself sufficiently ready, he sits back and with an awkward hand positions Valjean, and not without some initial difficulty, manages to arrange it so that Valjean enters him, a long, slow, slide that plays some part in rubbing his nerves raw, splitting him open and vulnerable, and Valjean turns his gaze away now, a courtesy Javert knows, for Javert generally does not wish for his thoughts to be thus written so plainly on his face and read. “Valjean,” Javert says though, and Valjean meets his eyes in that moment, and with a stifled gasp, a feeling he can no longer contain, his hips jerk up a little, as Javert steadies himself with a hand and finishes taking Valjean. It is like nothing he has ever felt, nothing he could have imagined, there is a rawness to it, a completion that they had chased together in the previous times that they had done this, but he understands, that they had not achieved until now. It is not mere carnality, nor simple lust, and when he shudders, Valjean shudders with him.

 

There is an ache in his thighs, however renewed he may be in strength, but he ignores it, moves gently, does not withdraw but redistributes,  and Valjean bites his lip hard, brings a hand to his mouth as though to suffocate his sounds in flesh, and Javert braces himself again, and draws that arm closer to himself. Valjean fists his prick with abandon, draws from Javert the same sounds that he spills willingly now himself, a muttered litany, barely intelligible, and Javert wishes in this moment that he could untie his tongue, speak words to bring joy, to tell Valjean that he esteems him, however inappropriate the moment might be for it. To articulate what Valjean has enabled him to feel, the barriers he has broken down. Javert has not merely passed through darkness, has not only been resubmerged in the water once more, he has been reborn, and he is filled with the knowledge. There is Valjean beneath his hands, there is Valjean within him, and he feels blessed is not too strong a word to use for the sensation.

 

They’re moving faster together now, more slickly, and Javert can feel the gathering tightness in his stomach, the tautness in his thighs that heralds the end, and Valjean has lost his restraint, is thrusting up into him as best as he can, and Javert more than meets him halfway, lifts a little, daringly and then comes back down, flexes his muscles as best as he can, draws a moan from Valjean at the sensation, and like that, he comes, a helpless shudder and Valjean drawing him gently through it, until he is finished, shaking still from the feeling, doubly aware now of the hardness inside him. He does not pause though, continues to move, and Valjean’s hands leave his prick, settle briefly again on his hips, until one of them continues upwards, rests lightly over where Javert considers his heart to be, and that it appears is enough, Valjean comes as well, eyes shut against the world, hands back against the sheets, his hips jerking upward, lip bitten to the point of blood.

 

Afterwards when Javert presses their mouths together again, a steady calm afterwards, he can taste it, red and bitter and living, an odd contrast to their state in all regards but not an unfitting one. Living, he thinks, regardless of the state of their bodies, begins here.

 


End file.
